On a cold night
After a fruitful summer
You asked me where my soul belonged.
‘Paris’ – I replied,
What would I say now?
I would say – Tokyo, Amsterdam, Brussels, Florence, Stratford-upon-Avon, even Buenos-Aires, even Toledo…
The summer was fruitful but it turned into a cold, restless autumn.
What both of us used to rely on – common sense – would slowly fade away.
With ambiguious, dubious feelings we keep counting our losses and mistakes, and both of us turn into greedy kings from Shakespearian artistic reality.
Our souls, once beautiful and mesmerising, turn into a swamp of paper, metal, semi-precious stones, broken guitar strings, a long, blasphemous tale of self-indoctrination, self-deception.
You’ve seen too much.
I’ve seen too little.
It’s a tough task to understand the hidden message behind your words,
but now I knew what I didn’t know before – each of us has up to 10 000 attempts to create happiness.
What one cannot buy or win, can be earned, even if it takes some more time.
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